


Honeydipped

by kingcaboodle



Series: Misery Loves Company [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bisexual Cassandra, Eventual Smut, F/F, Requited Unrequited Love, Romantic Fluff, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-08-27 03:32:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8385529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingcaboodle/pseuds/kingcaboodle
Summary: Fynn Lavellan, the sheltered First to the Lavellan Clan's Keeper, finds herself thrust into a position of unimaginable power. Luckily, Cassandra is there to keep her grounded (despite the hole in the sky).





	1. A Date with Death

_“Six sweetcakes says you don’t come back alive. Those honey-dipped ones you like so much.”_

Fynn hears Azrael’s voice from somewhere far away, somewhere back in the Free Marches, and her head throbs. She remembers the Keeper pulling her aside, arriving at the Temple, and then – her eyes open, a white-hot pain shooting up her arm. She glances down, flexing her fingers as something crackles to life in the center of her palm. _So bright_ , she flinches, the glow painful in the dimness of the room. Slowly, she realizes that her wrists are shackled, and she appears to be in, “Am I – where am I?”

 

As if to answer, the door swings open violently. A group of armed guards surround her, their swords poised. She blinks, wondering if she’s having some sort of nightmare. _Once, twice – nope, still there._ She hears the metallic jangle of armor, and her eyes focus on the swaying hips of the figure charging towards her.

 

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.” The Human demands, her breath hot against the pointed tip of Fynn’s ear. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead.” She paces around her, her finger pointing accusingly in Fynn’s face. “Except for you.”

 

_“Six sweetcakes you says you don’t come back alive!”_

_Showed_ him _wrong. I was the only one who survived._ She realizes – as the Human grabs her wrist roughly – that she has neglected to answer whatever question has been asked of her.

 

“Explain _this._ ”

 

Fynn’s hand throbs painfully – like she’s just been stung by a particularly nasty hornet – and glows, casting a green light on their faces. “I can’t.” She says simply. She’s never seen anything like this. Not even when accidentally casting spells. When this doesn’t please the Human, she shakes her head wildly from side to side. “I don’t know what that is, or how it got there!”

 

She yelps as the Human swoops down, grabbing her roughly by the front of her coat. “You’re lying!” She snarls, her teeth bared.

 

Luckily, her companion restrains her before she can tear out Fynn’s throat. “We need her, Cassandra.” She says, her voice soft but firm.

 

Fynn blinks hard, trying to shake herself from whatever was happening. _An explosion, everyone dead, “you won’t come back alive. You won’t come back alive!”_

For a minute, she wants to cry. “I can’t believe it.” She manages to say. “All those people…dead?”

 

“Do you remember what happened?” The woman in the hood stands before her, a few tufts of red hair peeking out from the edge of her cowl. “How this began?”

 

Her head aches, competing with the pain in her arm. “I,” she screws up her face, trying to bypass the fog rolling into her brain. “I remember running. _Things_ ,” she sees the images in flashes. “Things were chasing me. And then,” she looks up at her captors. “A woman?” it comes out as a question, though Fynn knows that they won’t be able to answer her. This seems to surprise the redhead, and Fynn continues. “She reached out to me, but then,” she trails off. _What then?_

“Go,” there is a heightened urgency in the one called Cassandra’s voice. “To the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.”

 

_Rift? What rift? Are they pushing me into a rift?_ Fynn’s head spins as Cassandra stoops low in front of her, her hands making quick work of her restraints. “What _did_ happen?” She asks hesitantly, almost afraid to find out the answer. She notes, with some dismay, that her wrists are still tied together.

 

Cassandra helps her to her feet with a surprisingly gentle touch. “It will be easier to show you.”

 

She is led out of the holding area, out into the blustery gray outdoors. Fynn isn’t sure what she flinches at first – the cold mountain air, or the gaping hole in the sky. She decides it is the latter, and her mouth hangs open. _That definitely wasn’t there before. I couldn’t have done that, could I?_ She swallows. _I mean, a few fires set here and there are nothing. Not compared to a tear in the_ sky.

 

“We call it the Breach.” Cassandra is saying from next to her. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour.” She must miss Fynn’s look of horror at that calculation, because she goes on to add, “It’s not the only such rift. Just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

 

She gestures with her bound hands, fingers splayed for emphasis. “An explosion can do _that_?” _None of_ my _explosions have ever done that_ .

 

“This one did.” She replies, as though they are standing around talking about the weather. “Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

 

As though in response, the Breach crackles to life. Laughing gleefully at the products of its destruction. A burst of white explodes behind her eyes, and Fynn is almost certain that her arm is being torn from its socket. That _thing_ on her hand sparks in response to the Breach, reducing her to a screaming puddle on the frozen ground.

 

Cassandra stoops down next to her, her hand warm on Fynn’s back. “Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads.” Their eyes meet, and she nods gravely. “And it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”  


“The key?” She repeats. “To doing what? Killing me and taking my arm with it?’

 

“Closing the Breach,” she replies. “Whether that’s possible is something we shall discover shortly. It is our only chance, however, and yours.”

 

Fynn frowns, wondering if all Humans are this difficult. “You still think I did this?” She asks incredulously. “To myself?”

 

“Not intentionally.” But even as she says this, Cassandra doesn’t look convinced. “Something clearly went wrong.”

 

“And if I’m not responsible?”

 

“Someone is, and you are our only suspect.” She quirks an arched eyebrow. “You wish to prove your innocence? This is the only way.”

 

_This is the only way. Close that_ thing _in the sky, and get yourself killed. Or refuse to do anything, and get yourself killed._ “I understand.” She says, realizing that there really is no third option. Cassandra’s stoic mask slips, and for a moment she looks hopeful. “I’ll do what I can.” Fynn smiles – grins really – shrugging slightly. “Whatever it takes.”

 

She thinks that Cassandra almost smiles back as she once again pulls her to her feet, leading her down the path. The walk is long, and the road to the Breach is paved with angry shemlen. Fynn can’t help but gawk at them. So many rounded ears. So many enraged faces.

 

“They have decided your guilt.” Cassandra explains over the sounds of their jeering. “They need it. The people of Haven mourn our most holy, Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry.” Her own voice sounds like it may soon break with tears. “The Conclave was hers. It was a chance for peace between mages and Templars. She brought their leaders together. Now, they are dead.”

 

They arrive at the bridge, the heavy wooden gates scraping the stone as they open.

 

“We lash out,” Cassandra continues. “Like the sky. But we must think beyond ourselves, as she did. Until the Breach is sealed.”

 

She produces a dagger from her hip, and Fynn looks at her in horror. _She’s going to kill me. She brought me up here to stab me._ “Please,” she squeaks.

 

“There will be a trial. I can promise no more.” Rather than stabbing her, Cassandra cuts the ropes that bind her wrists. “Come, it is not far.”

 

_“Six sweetcakes says you don’t come back alive. Those honey-dipped ones you like so much.”_

She follows after Cassandra, rubbing her wrists where the rope had begun to chafe. Those cakes were as good as hers.


	2. The Best We've Got

The Herald of Andraste, a title hefty in both name and responsibility. Cassandra slings her shield across her back, taking a moment to breathe in the peace of her tent before being spat out once more into the chaos of the Hinterlands. She had spent the night with her thoughts shrouded in the smoke still wafting up from the West Road. The Herald had come to them, a beacon of hope in their most desperate hour. Cassandra pushes through the tent flap. Her thoughts are somber, the weight of the mission ahead of them heavy on her shoulders. _We must see this through,_ she thinks, scanning the camp for her companions. _The fate of the world de_ –

 

“Higher, Varric! I can’t do this if you don’t help!”

 

Cassandra freezes, watching in horror as the Dwarf grips the Herald’s wobbling legs, her bare feet curled around his shoulders. In her hands she holds what is either a large stick or a small branch. “Herald, what are you,” Cassandra is cut off as the Herald lurches forward, swinging the branch wildly, Varric struggling to hold her steady.

 

“I almost got it this time, Varric! Just hold me–” She yelps as Varric stumbles over an upturned stone, sending them both toppling to the ground.

 

This is the cue Cassandra needs to snap out of her stupor, and she can almost feel her blood boiling as she strides over to the tangle of limbs lying in the dirt. “Is this how you plan on securing the mounts for the Inquisition? By breaking your neck playing Orlesian circus with Varric?”

 

She watches as the Elf’s bushy white eyebrows furrow, her plump lips shifting into a pout. “S’not my fault, Cas.” She mumbles, nudging Varric with her foot. “Varric said that he could keep me steady. Besides,” she points one grubby finger up to the high braches of a nearby tree. “There’s a hornet’s nest up there. I didn’t want you to get stung.” Cassandra lets her go, and she falls to the ground with an “oof.”

 

“Don’t mind the Seeker, Boss.” Varric rises from the grass, brushing the dirt off of his breeches. “She’s just worried that you’re going to kill yourself before we get to Val Royeaux.” He claps her on the back, shooting a grin in Cassandra’s direction. “It’s just her way of showing that she cares.”

 

“Ugh,” Cassandra rolls her eyes, adjusting the sword on her hip as she sets forward. “You couldn’t have put a stop to _that_?” She asks Solas, standing over him as he rises slowly from in front of his tent.

  
“I could have,” he admits. “But where would be the fun in that?”  He chuckles when her frown deepens. “We cannot spend our entire journey scowling, Seeker. A little playfulness can be rather refreshing in times such as these.”

 

She hears the Herald hum in agreement at her side, and the sound causes her already-clenched jaw to tighten. It wasn’t as easy as they thought it was, being the constant voice of reason. But if she wasn’t there to provide some source of authority, who would do it? Certainly not Solas. The amusement splashed across his face told her that while sealing the Breach was on his list of concerns, he was in no rush to stop the Herald from breaking a few bones in the name of “a little playfulness.” And Varric was more inclined to encourage such displays, leaving Cassandra in the position of –

 

“Cas,” she feels a cool hand slip into hers, a set of soft fingers intertwining with her own. “Do you think that rifts have feelings?” She looks down to see the Herald’s large, crimson eyes  staring up at her inquisitively. “Do they hurt when I close them? Or is it more of a ticklish kind of feeling?”

 

She feels her head begin to pound, the stress bubbling up in her stomach in a way that makes her want to vomit. “I believe that Solas is more equipped to answer that,” she pauses to unlatch her hand, “particular type of question.”

 

The Herald’s eyes dart over to the apostate before she grips Cassandra’s arm, tugging her down just enough to whisper in her ear. “But what if he goes into one of those _Solas-y_ lectures of his? I asked him about something last night – elfroot, I think – and he didn’t stop talking for twenty minutes. Besides,” she smiles, almost bashfully. “I like talking with you.”

 

Cassandra feels her cheeks warm, though at what she isn’t certain. Prying herself from the Herald’s grasp, she clears her throat. “We can think about talking once you’ve closed the Breach.” She says, turning her head away and hiding her growing flush with her hand. “At least _one_ of us should remain focused on the task at hand.”

 

“Hm,” the Herald hums, her eyes glinting mischievously. “I’m going to hold you to that, Cas.” She says finally, flashing a sharp-toothed grin.

 

“My name is _Cassandra,_ ” she mutters, watching her bound over to Solas.

 

From her side, Varric gives her a nudge. “Careful, Seeker,” he says with a wink. “I hear those apostates can be particularly bewitching.”

 

“Ugh,” the grunt comes as naturally as breathing, the disgust for her Dwarven companion slowly causing her cheeks to cool. They continue through the Hinterlands, the only sound around them the Herald’s incessant chattering. Cassandra feels the knot in her stomach tighten, the lump stuck in her throat. They might not have made the most capable team, but this was the best that they had. And that was enough to hope for.

 


	3. Tough Love

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that there was something wrong in Redcliffe.

 

Fynn’s nose twitches in disgust, the smell of burnt shade flesh hanging in the air of the chantry. The rift had long since been closed, Dorian and Felix gone their own way, and her companions healed. And yet she still could not find the will to cross the blood-soaked carpet and move along.

 

She hears Varric at her side, but he might as well be across the Waking Sea, his voice lost within the jumble of thoughts inside her own head.

 

_I shouldn’t be here._ She thinks frantically, eyes planted on her bloodstained feet. _This is a mistake. The Keeper made a mistake. I can’t fix this. I can’t fix any of this._

 

Her head shoots up as Varric steps closer to put a hand on her shoulder, one she smacks away before he can touch her. “I have to go,” she announces.

 

“We were about to suggest the same,” Solas replies, not unkindly.

 

“No,” Fynn shakes her head, snowy bangs falling over her eyes. “No, I mean I have to go. I have to go away from here.” She heads for the chantry doors, her head still swaying frantically. “I shouldn’t be here, I can’t do anything for you people. Close a hole in the sky? Recapture the mage rebellion from the hands of Tevinter magisters? I can’t do it. I _won’t_ do it.” Her mouth struggles to keep up with the racing thoughts in her head. “I’m sorry, but you’re on your own here. I can’t do anything more to help you. I have to,” her fingertips brush the cool metal of the door handle when she is jerked back violently by a grip that can only belong to one woman.

 

Thrown back with an “oof,” Fynn stares up at Cassandra, the Seeker’s expression anything but sympathetic. “You don’t think I know this?” She asks, her voice cold and dangerously quiet. “Have I not made it clear that I believe you to be wholly incapable of anything more than singing tavern songs with Varric and goading Solas into picking elfroot?”

 

She spits the question out venomously, and the palpable disgust in her voice hits Fynn like a brick. It was true that her attempts to grow closer to the Seeker had been hampered by Cassandra’s obvious distaste for her carefree attitude and potentially even her mere existence in itself. But Fynn had viewed that as an obstacle to overcome as opposed to a sign that Cassandra’s heart was one that simply would not be thawed. But the sight of the other woman’s usual look of grim acceptance replaced with a mask of sheer fury is enough to shatter Fynn’s heart into a thousand pieces. Her lower lip trembles. “It’s good for healing,” she argues feebly.

 

A vein throbs in the Seeker’s temple, her hand shooting out again before Fynn can think to dodge it. Cassandra grabs her by the front of her robes, and for a moment Fynn wishes she had put on the _Antaam-saar_ she had found in the chest in her quarters at Haven. Cassandra’s grip is iron-tight, her cheeks red with anger. “Every morning,” she says coldly, her fist tightening. “Every morning I ask the Maker why He chose to spare you. Of all of those who perished that night, why would He have left the task up to you? Out of all the capable souls left to die, _you_ were the only one to survive.”

 

Fynn’s body goes limp in the older woman’s grip, her trembling lip giving way to full blown sobs. She wants to tell Cassandra that it isn’t her fault, that she had grown up surrounded by elders who had always stressed the necessity of community. She wants to explain how since she woke up in Haven, a knot had worked its way into her chest and tightened into something so tense that she was certain her body would snap in half if she breathed too deeply. That she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since this whole mess started, her heart longing for the comfort that only living among her clan could bring.

 

Instead the words come out as indecipherable blubbering, her body wracking with sobs until Cassandra releases her with a noise of disgust usually reserved for Varric. She turns on her heel and leaves the Chantry, slamming the heavy oak door behind her and leaving a heavy silence and the sound of Fynn’s shaky breathing in her wake.

 

Varric is the first to make a move to comfort her, and she feels his hand warm on her shoulder as he sinks down to the floor beside her. “C’mon, Sparky, as far as the Seeker goes, that was a pretty gentle scolding.”

 

“Cas,” she squeezes out between watery hiccups, “C-Cas doesn’t – she said I – she d-doesn’t like me.” She ends on a wail, throwing herself onto the Dwarf and burying her face in the thick leather of his coat.

 

He pats her back, “There, there. I don’t think she likes anybody.” When this only causes Fynn to cry harder, he tries again. “Alright, maybe that doesn’t help. But just think about it. You’ll get out there, kick that magister’s ass all the way back to Tevinter, seal the breach, and earn the Seeker’s begrudging respect.” Varric smiles when she stares up at him through bleary eyes. “How do you think I’ve managed to stick around for so long?”

 

“I don’t _want_ her begrudging respect,” she sniffles, drawing her arm across her eyes. “I want her to like me.”

 

“You can’t expect to be everyone’s friend,” Solas says, the sound of his voice causing her to jump. Fynn had almost forgotten that he was with them, having stayed so silent for so long. When she separates herself from Varric, he crouches down. Solas smiles kindly, patiently. A smile that sends a wave of relief washing over her. “A Dalish mage, thrown from the Breach in the chaos that killed the Divine? You cannot expect a devout Andrastian, a woman who thrives on order as the Seeker does, to welcome you with open arms. Not without a show of good faith.” She sniffles and he adds, “something to prove your worthiness.” Solas reaches forward, brushing a tear from the corner of her eye. “You may never earn the Seeker’s affections, but does not mean you can’t earn her admiration.”

 

His gray eyes flicker with warmth, and she exhales deeply. Though she knows the flutter in her chest that quickened her heartbeat whenever Cassandra was near was not crying out for the Seeker’s admiration, she had to admit that her companions were right. It’s a painful thought – the idea of resigning herself to a cool sense of responsibility counterintuitive to her desire for close companionship – but she attempts to set her jaw as she rises from the floor.

 

Stepping out into Redcliffe, she forces herself to brush past the Seeker and set out on the road ahead. The path to aloofness was a difficult one, but she would be damned if she wasn’t going to try.


End file.
